


Dead Souls

by vogue91



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Death Eaters, Ficlet Collection, Gen, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-21 17:29:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13745829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vogue91/pseuds/vogue91
Summary: Death Eaters are supposed to be slaves and nothing else. But each one of them takes on their role so differently.





	Dead Souls

_ The Soul of Fear _

 

_What are you doing here, Lucius?_

It was a question he had asked himself too many times.

He had never found an answer, and so he kept being still, he kept following orders, pretending he wasn’t touched by what was around him, as if he had built a wall between himself and the world; a wall forbidding him to see the blood, to hear the scream, to smell the death.

_[My strength, it is fading, I have to give in]_

He had always tried to deserve the name he carried, to become someone different from the unconcerned brat I was. To become a man, a man capable of facing what destiny challenged him with, without thinking twice.

But fate was now playing with him, as if he was a mere puppet in its hands. Expert hands, leading him to the point of no return, where it wouldn’t have allowed him anymore to ignore what was taking place right in front of him.

Right by his hands.

_[Because my fate is horror and doom]_

Killing stained those hands. The Killing Curse was a tidy, fast, _clean_ spell, but it was still dirty, and it left stains that were impossible to clean up.

One night, after yet another mission, he almost felt like collapsing. He forced himself to watch Fenrir attacking his next victim, denying the others to finish it too soon.

The flesh torn apart, the horror on the face of a man barely looking human, deformed by the animal’s fangs.

His blood was everywhere. On the ground, on the walls of that dark and wet cellar, it poured from his veins and from the mouth of that foul beast.

And then, the red sprays hit Lucius as well.

_[And ever since that day, infected with its rage]_

He would’ve liked to pull away, to leave the room, or even just close his eyes. But something inside of him forced him to watch that abomination, that sacrilege of the human life, thinking that it didn’t matter how much blood was spilled, death was still death, and there was no dignity in it.

Not for the victim, nor for its perpetrator, he admitted to himself.

Lucius Malfoy was a coward, and that he wasn’t admitting. And the role of cowards includes accepting all they see, no matter how much it disgusts them. With time they get used to everything, to any obscenity they lay their eyes on.

But that night, he felt the very first shiver shaking him, taking possession over his body, mind, over his useless heart.

He watched, he got horrified, he knew the terror of that man as a reflection of his own.

For the first time, Lucius Malfoy was present to his own fear.

 

 

_ The Soul of Violence _

__

They called him monster.

And it gave him a thrill that he couldn’t turn off, that made him feel strong, alive.

They would’ve never understood what it actually felt like being a monster, they couldn’t even imagine how much excitement gave having in his hands the thread on which a human life hanged.

_[No one knows what it’s like to be the bad man]_

Fenrir loved what he was, and he would’ve never given up on it. Reason why he couldn’t understand the human madness, all those useless people that he turned and that kept fighting the nature of what they had become.

That’s why he kept going, always certain that one day he would’ve found someone akin, someone actually capable of comprehending his insane craving for pain, for blood, for flesh.

Not for death, because death was useless in his schemes.

No. He was just asking its right price to the world, which had made him deliciously damned.

He asked for justice, and he looked for it in the spreading of what, in his eyes, was a blessing.

_[But my dreams, they aren’t as empty as my conscience seems to be]_

He would’ve liked to take with him into the oblivion one of those pieces of already dead meat that followed the Dark Lord. Those lost souls, wandering, looking for a reason to be.

He would’ve been able to give them one. During the night, his domain, he lost himself imagining to brush their skin with his teeth, to feel the bitter taste of their blood, to watch ecstatic the show of horror in those arrogant eyes, the same looking at him with despise.

Like Crouch, the little kid convinced to have the world at his feet. And he didn’t see the world was going to step on him, to make him a slave of that vicious cycle of death, of suffering without any payback.

He was young and insane enough for Fenrir to deem him fitting to his purposes. To have him following on that path of pure and simple violence, so that they both could’ve finally found an outlet for that life hanging in a limbo.

But he wasn’t going to do anything, as usual.

_[My love is vengeance, that’s never free]_

He denied himself to linger too much on such alluring and unrealistic thoughts.

Fenrir Greyback was an animal, an animal lonely in its nature.

He wasn’t going to suffer for it, for he had forgotten what pain and sadness were.

And yet, he was sure of it, had he still been a human, even just a part of him, he would’ve felt incredibly sad. He smelled the air, looking for that deadly scent that for him was the smell of blood.

He hunted, feeling like pure instinct.

He hunted to be himself, somehow.

He hunted, for it was the only thing which made him feel like he mattered.

_[To be the sad man. Behind blue eyes]_

_ The Soul of Madness _

__

He had never thought of himself as a common boy.

He had never thought he could lead a normal life, that he could follow the road laid out in front of him, nor he wanted to.

He didn’t want to give any satisfaction to that man that he barely recognised as a father, he didn’t want the world to remember his as the son of Bartemius Crouch.

He would’ve slipped into the oblivion, and people would’ve whispered with fear the name of Bartemius Crouch Jr.

Those were his plans. Filled with arrogance and stained with a note of madness, but since he was a child he had been taught that without ambitions, a man is not worthy of being called that.

Then, the fall.

The fire, gripping on his bowels, making him slave to passions he never actually felt.

Becoming a stupid man, prey of the same drive affecting any other human being.

Common, ordinary.

A failure, because that was the fate for those who let themselves being captured by a pair of simple eyes.

Deep, dark, lethal.

And forcing himself to never look, for it would’ve been the ruin of all he had built.

_[‘Don’t look, don’t look’ the shadow breathe]_

Barty had played the part of the monster, and now the monster had waken up in the lowest of instincts, into the gazes stolen to that woman, which would’ve never belonged to him.

He had cursed himself, tormented. He had screamed for his frustration, scratching his face to dig holes for the thought of her to get out of him.

_[There’s nothing you can ever say, nothing you can ever do]_

With time, he had convinced himself he could have anything he wanted, with perseverance, obstinacy... killing, hurting, torturing if it was necessary.

And now that he was facing Bellatrix, so cruel, more ferocious than him, he found himself facing an insurmountable wall.

There were no words that could touch her, gesture to affect her... and he stayed in the shadow, waiting for a moment that wasn’t coming, trying to became a part of her madness and having to realize each time that there was no room for him around that woman, so beautiful and so feral.

And so he screamed. He went on, pretending he didn’t care. When he was alone, and walls seemed to close on him, Barty screamed his lungs out.

_[Every night I burn. Every night I call your name]_

Barty Crouch Jr. would’ve been remembered like a Death Eater, like yet another madman close to pure evil, so close to touch, but that never could.

His effigy would’ve remained, the image he hated so much, and that seemed to belong to him like nothing else in the world.

Perched on a branch, waiting for his prey to look at him.

As a sly, grim and much ordinary crow.

_[Dreaming the crow black dream.]_

_ The Soul of Passion _

__

She laughed, looking at herself in the mirror.

She had almost forgotten, during the years.

She was a _woman_.

Before being a Death Eater, before being a servant of the Dark Lord.

Or, at least, it was supposed to be like that, hadn’t she been blinded by that stream of sensations, remaining dormant in her.

_[I know what passion is, but I don’t know if it’s poison]_

It was like she had forgotten all she was, she tried to remember pieces of her existence before meeting him, but her mind got lost in shady mazes of smoke and ashes, where Lord Voldemort’s face kept arising, proud.

As if she was born the moment she met him.

As if she had lost the faculty to think, and every detail of her was his, her every thought, her every action.

She didn’t know why, but it was pleasant, losing herself in what her Lord desired.

_[I don’t know what I am anymore, and whether I reason or dream]_

She saw him planning and pontificating, and she felt finally a part of something.

Her family had always been so silly, they talked about the pureness of blood and they forgot to take action.

But she wasn’t like that at all. She felt she was actually doing something, that she was lashing out on that sharp hate she had been taught to feel.

The only obstacle, were those passion she had never managed to tame, that coldness she couldn’t own, at least not in front of him.

Bellatrix Lestrange was a murderer, the incarnation of pure evil, but she wasn’t able to go on as her surrounding didn’t affect her at all.

She was like an animal playing with its food before devouring it, knowing that the time available wasn’t endless.

And the only thing she really would’ve liked to play with, the only thing on which she would’ve poured out all her lower instincts, to the point of being empty inside, was the one she wasn’t able to control.

Bella loved him, if she was capable of such a sentiment, and she hated herself for this complete lack of control.

_[You threw me in the abyss of a mania]_

And he knew, oh did he know! He played her the same way she had fun doing with others, feral and cruel, like the worst of evils.

Bellatrix, charmed by that wickedness, couldn’t help but following him everywhere, binding her eyes to his, as attracted from that empty stare, from that ferocious face he loved to show.

She was falling, unfettered. Around her, only the emptiness of a life that was slowly slipping through her fingers, a body in ruin, a mind blending with her lord’s one.

But Bellatrix Lestrange, as powerful as she was, wasn’t able to oppose to all of that, nor she wanted to.

She had already sold her soul to the worst of demons, and she was ready to give all of herself to him if it was necessary.

If he would’ve accepted this gift.

_[You will destroy me. You will destroy me... you will destroy me.]_


End file.
